


Threading the Needle, Binding the Seams

by zuzeca



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast, Fractured Fairy Tale, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, Imprisonment, Intoxication, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plug and Play, Reprogramming, Tactile, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-08 22:06:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuzeca/pseuds/zuzeca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Cybertron is faced with destruction from an alien invasion, data archivist Orion Pax descends into the depths of the planet in search of a defender from legend. Instead Orion finds Megatron, a monster presiding over a kingdom of monsters, and is forced to strike an unusual bargain with him to save his home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My entry for the tentaclebigbang challenge on LJ. Betaed by the lovely [fractalserpent](http://archiveofourown.org/users/femme4jack) and [femme4jack](http://archiveofourown.org/users/femme4jack). Illustrations by the wonderful and talented [Dellessa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dellessa): [In the Tunnels Below](http://dellessanna.deviantart.com/art/In-the-Tunnels-Below-365099911?q=gallery%3Adellessanna%2F37979584&qo=1) and [The Insecticon Gathering](http://dellessanna.deviantart.com/art/The-Insecticon-Gathering-365101199?q=gallery%3Adellessanna%2F37979584&qo=0)

The sour scent of rusting metal rose among the eerily silent factories, rolling over him in suffocating waves. Orion tugged the ragged mesh sheet, a makeshift cloak scavenged from the wreckage to protect his vents, closer about his body as he crept along in the shadows of the smelters, optics trained upwards.

A low moan from a nearby alleyway “O Primus, preserve us…” 

Orion hesitated. His window of opportunity was very narrow, but the despairing, plaintive tone wouldn’t let him turn away. Cautious, he inched into the alley, scanning warily for anything alien in nature.

There, the source of the cry: a bot, a dull grey creature writhing in pain. For a moment he was puzzled. The bot appeared intact and wasn’t visibly leaking energon, but as he approached he caught a glimpse of blackened plating, darker than the grey soot of the factories, a tangled web twisting across the expanse of the chassis, and he froze.

Plague victim.

Febrile yellow optics lit as they landed on him, “You there! P-please help me!” A hand clawed in his direction.

He took a step back, spark twisting in fear and shame. “Forgive me, I can’t.”

A moan of panic, “No, no, please, you can’t leave me!”

His internal chronometer tugged at him; he brushed it aside, “What’s your designation?”

The optics cleared briefly, “Steelhead.” A gladiator’s designation.

“Stay here and stay hidden. The Ejoornians aren’t interested in prisoners, but there may be rescue crews coming.” He knew it was a lie even as he said it, but it was the only comfort he could offer, “I’m sorry, but I have to leave.”

“Where are you going?”

Orion rearranged his cloak and looked out towards the smoking ruin of the city.

“To find help.”

\--

The tunnels beneath the Kaon factories were a labyrinth. He traced the silent tracks, following the treads of miners and transports as they grew more scarce, pressing down into the blackness of the narrowing passages. 

_This would be easier if I had a clearer idea of where I was going._

Down, the songs and stories said. Down and down and down, into the darkness of Primus’s innards, which crawled with creatures dead and sightless. Salvation lurked here, they said, among the dried and stagnated rivers of a god’s blood and the fragments of his bones, defense against an alien threat. Yet he continued onwards, now scraping between misshapen boulders, now scrambling along on his belly in mimicry of some primitive creature stretching to free itself from the primordial muck, and found nothing. 

Was he meant to seek the Core?

 _Somehow I doubt it._ The handful of ancient etchings he’d uncovered, rimed with rust, had not resembled the Temple depictions of Primus’s holy light. They’d shown fanged shadows, surging up from beneath the ground to devour destruction raining down from the heavens, clashing and consuming as ordinary citizens stood below and stared in amazement.

If not for Prima, Saber held high, standing at the side of a flaming wraith posed as his dark mirror, Orion would have thought the images apocalyptic.

Struggling to his feet as the passage before him opened up into a wide tunnel once more, he brushed away dust and soot clogging his side vents and considered his position. He’d half-expected to stumble upon the salvation spoken of in his wanderings, but the passages remained mockingly empty and he did not have the fuel or the time to walk forever.

Perhaps there was a way to call it to him instead. 

He’d never been taught the sacred hymnals, the subtleties of resonance which were known only those who entered into Temple orders, but he’d needed a working knowledge of them to perform his function and he could read the glyphs well enough. He knew of no prayer that existed to express this particular plea, but he was capable of improvisation. 

Retrieving the fragmentary invocations from his memory cache, he began to splice them together, weaving a supplication which he broadcast out on a basic harmonic frequency, one that could be heard by any creature within range.

The priests of the Temple would probably have him executed for such blasphemy; he only hoped Primus might forgive him.

 _“Guardian of Darkness,”_ he called, because none of the ancient stories had offered a name. _“Thou which shelter in the shrouded depths, Thy realm devoid of light, which holds the roots of the world secure. I beseech Thee: incline Thy sacred ear.”_

He walked on, the hymnal taking on the rhythm of his footsteps as he pressed deeper, the harmonics bouncing off the walls of the tunnel, buzzing across his chassis.

He did not know when the rhythm changed, only that one moment he sang alone and the next a second voice rose to join him, deeper and wordless, filling in the spaces, the empty harmonics which he’d never been taught.

He stumbled in his litany, voice stuttering to a halt. Behind him the low frequency died away, remnants vibrating against him in a powerful sweep of sound. The heavy tramp of footsteps slowed in time with his as he came to a standstill.

Silence reigned.

A low chuckle, and then in the same sacred glyphs, _“Well, little surface dweller, this is a novelty. It’s been a long time since anyone has offered me a prayer.”_

Trembling, he turned.

A monstrous shadow, two shifting pinpoints of crimson light as the creature’s optics scanned over him. It did not resemble the flaming wraith of the etchings, or the toothed shadows, but Orion had no doubt that this was the creature of which the songs and stories spoke.

Stumbling and inwardly cringing at his poor ability, he struggled to piece together a sentence in the complex language, _“Guardian of Darkness, I seek your aid.”_

 _“Of course you do. Tell me, little one, what desperation has driven the Prime to send envoys?_ The voice was deceptively pleasant, _“And what hubris has led him to believe that I will hear an envoy besides himself?”_

_“Sentinel Prime is dead.”_

_“Sentinel, eh? I’d wondered at the designation of the Council’s new puppet.”_ The optics flickered, _“Well, no great loss, he was but a Prime in name after all. And I suppose you are his heir? Left to carry out his final command?”_

He shook his head _“I am a…”_ He lacked the ancient word for his function, _“a scribe of Iacon. The monsters from above,”_ he coupled the glyph for _Quintesson_ and a more general one for hostile alien life with a linkage that indicated alliance _“have unleashed a plague upon us. They are destroying our cities, slaughtering our race. We need your strength to defeat them.”_ His precise, archivist’s processor quailed at the poor, fumbling account of the horror of the engineered virus, the pronged assault as the Ejoornians swept in as cities began to fall to the plague. The widespread terror at Sentinel’s deactivation and at the realization, as ships began to carpet bomb the cities, that the Quintessons weren’t interested in slaves anymore, only revenge.

 _“I see.”_ A long silence as the creature considered and Orion prayed mutely. Surely the creature must see, surely… 

_“No, I do not believe I will help you.”_

“What?” Orion started, slipping back into Iacon vernacular in his shock. “Please, we face extinction otherwise, you must—”

A snarl as the creature broke in. “I must _nothing_ ,” it seethed in the same dialect. Some part of Orion’s processor noted the traces of an accent similar to Steelhead’s. “Do you think I care for the fate of the surface dwellers? Why should I call forth my army? The Quintessons will never penetrate the depths of this planet.” Optics narrowed, “I do not know what madness drove you to seek me out, but any alliance you hoped to invoke was broken long ago.”

“Please, there must be something that can convince you.”

“Do you have anything to offer me for performing such a task?”

Caught flat-footed, Orion stared dumbly. A bargaining chip? Of all the things he’d considered for this journey it had never occurred to him that he might have to bribe anyone. His processor flickered, helpless over his small subspace inventory: a few energon cubes and a datapad or two, nothing to tempt this monster of the deep.

The creature snorted at his silence “I thought not.” It turned to go, optics winking out and leaving Orion in darkness.

“Wait!”

A clank as the creature paused.

“You are right,” he confessed, “I possess nothing with which to bargain. Nothing save myself.”

The optics blinked on as the creature turned back, “Yourself? And what exactly are you offering?”

“Companionship,” he suppressed a tremor of unease and steeled himself, meeting the blazing optics squarely. “Permanent companionship if you wish. In any capacity you desire.”

For a moment, the creature stared at him, incredulous, and then it began to laugh.

“How remarkable!” it said. “You have some spark in you, little one.”

“Well?” he pressed. “Is that an acceptable bargain?”

The creature didn’t answer. Rather it approached with slow deliberation. Orion stood his ground as it loomed over him, struggling not to flinch as their energy fields meshed and sensory information began to flood in, giving him a clearer vision of the creature than his optics could, all monstrous spikes and ancient cold intelligence and power like molten metal.

“Well, surface dweller?” it rumbled. “Do you wish to retract your offer?”

Orion didn’t reply verbally, instead he expanded his energy field, stretching out in open invitation, letting it detect his submission, his determination.

He felt rather than saw the creature’s smile.

“Very well,” there was an edge of indulgent amusement in the tone. “You drive an interesting bargain, scribe.” One heavy limb stamped, ringing against the floor of the tunnel, and Orion jumped in alarm. “Rise, my warriors!”

Echoes welled up, vibrations rising and doubling even as logic told him they should fade, pressing against him and sparking little tremors in his internals. And below the clang of metal struck, a low roar approaching.

They poured out over the walls and floor of the tunnel, a floodtide of wings and mandibles and glowing optics and far too many skittering legs. And beneath them, more slowly, an endless surging wave of figures stumbling forward, their wrecked frames dripping energon -- not healthy blue, but malevolent purple, unseeing optics lighting the gloom.

A chill passed through his spark. Was this salvation: an army of corpses?

Trembling, he looked up at the creature as the tide of soldiers parted around them and caught his first true glimpse of the creature: spiked armor, curved helm lit by corpselight and a sardonic smile on a fanged mouth that seemed to say _Do you see what you have unleashed?_

A bot, he was startled to see; four limbs and body and head, a demon from the distant past, shaped for war, but a bot nonetheless, for all his prodigious size.

Though he couldn’t conceal his unease entirely, he straightened and met the crimson optics once more. _I see._ He thought, images roiling across his processor, the spires of the Iacon Towers shattering, Alpha Trion shoving him through a secret passage beneath the Hall, bellowing ‘Go! I’ll hold them off!’ Steelhead writhing as plague ravaged his systems. _And I would do it again._

The smile remained a mask, but one optic ridge quirked ever so slightly, as though Orion had surprised him. 

Gathering himself, he modulated his voice above the roar of the strange army and offered a polite bow, “My designation is Orion Pax. Might I inquire yours?”

The mech laughed once more, “Of course, I have forgotten myself.” He mirrored Orion’s little genuflection, “Welcome to my domain, Orion Pax. I am Megatron.”

 

Orion watched as the last of the soldiers shambled from the tunnel, headed unerringly for the surface. “Will they have any trouble? The plague strain is particularly virulent.”

Megatron made a derisive sound, “The dead have nothing to fear from a virus, and the Insecticons do not fear death.” He smiled darkly, “The Quintessons have forgotten the full power of Cybertron. It is beyond time they were reminded.”

The last of the soldiers vanished and the claustrophobic blackness closed in around them once more, reducing Megatron’s form to merely another, darker shadow. Megatron stepped forward and Orion caught the vague movement of a gesture in the direction from which the creatures had come, “After you.”

Suppressing a shiver, Orion tugged his ragged cloak around him and complied.

It seemed impossible that the tunnels might go further down, but Megatron ushered him deeper, along paths winding into the heart of the planet. And among the branching warren passages he caught glimpses of light, the gleam of optics, heard the rustle and clank of plating and the low, continual scrape of burrowing limbs.

Not a warren, he realized, but a hive.

Was this where Megatron lived, among this collection of ambulatory corpses and instinct-driven beasts? Was this where he was meant to live as well?

Groping for some means to break the silence, he asked cautiously, “Is it common for you to send forth your forces independently? If you’ll pardon me, you strike me as someone who might prefer to lead from the front.”

Close behind him, he felt Megatron stiffen, field flickering with anger and he tensed in anticipation of a blow. But there was only a brief, ominous silence. Hurriedly he added, “I mean no disrespect, I only—”

“You are correct,” Megatron interrupted him, voice tight with anger, but controlled. “But that is no longer an option for me. The Insecticons have their own generals and the others are incapable of deviation from commands. Have no fear, Orion Pax, they are more than capable of handling anything the Quintessons might have to offer.”

Orion bowed his head, “Forgive me, I did not know what to expect when I called on you. I only spoke of what I have seen, the records of your battles with Prima.”

Megatron made a short sound of contempt, “Your information is out of date, scribe. I never fought beside Prima.” Halting, he indicated the dark circle of a passage to their left, “Your quarters. You may wander as you wish, only keep away from the unused passages beneath the Hive.”

Surprised, Orion nonetheless did not press, nor question the restriction. Megatron was old, undoubtedly, but if he was not the wraith at Prima’s side, then who was he? Stepping into the mouth of the passage, he offered a gesture of respect, “Thank you.”

Megatron had already turned aside, striding further down the tunnel and did not answer.

The quarters to which he’d been directed were small, a single unlit berthroom. Feeling his way about by the dim light of his optics, he soon determined that it also lacked the basic amenities of an energon dispenser or any sort of washrack.

 _Not exactly a Prime’s accommodations. I’ll have to find a source of energon. Megatron must be obtaining his supply from somewhere._ Sighing, he settled himself onto the berth and did his best to recharge.

\--

_“I received your communique,” there was a wealth of meaning in the small handful of words._

_He glanced up from the datapad in his hand, “And?”_

_“I’ve run the simulations,” the mech growled. “Effective, but the strategy will result in overwhelming casualties—”_

_He waved the objections aside, “But as you say: effective. The campaign on Nebulos’s eastern continent should be the final display required to force them to sign the trade agreement. And as for casualties, it is not as if the Insecticons are citizens.”_

_Blue optics narrowed, “You know my stance on that particular bit of idiotic legislation.”_

_He lowered his optics, a dismissal, “You have your orders.”_

_“And I am expected to sacrifice my troops for an empty show of force?”_

_He stepped forward, bringing his height and mass to bear, “You have your orders.”_

_“And if I refuse?”_

_He struck, a sudden, backhanded blow and the other mech staggered under the force of it, “Do not forget, Megatronus. Each Prime is unique, but the Protector is interchangeable. I have no use for a Protector who will not obey my commands.”_

_Optics blazed at him, bright with loathing._

_“You’re dismissed.”_

\--

The stasis dream flickered and vanished and his chronometer jerked him out of recharge as it always had during the handful of vorns of his function, five breems before his shift would have begun. He onlined his optics, staring up into the darkness of the berthroom. It seemed so meaningless now, that precise, little alarm. Who knew if he’d ever return to his post?

After refueling from a cube in his subspace, he wiped the soot from his vents and shook it from his cloak before donning the garment and venturing out into the corridor.

Empty, no sign of his host, but he could hear the nearby rustle of Insecticons. Perhaps he should start there; surely even subterranean beasts needed to refuel? 

He followed the rustle and hum into one of the winding side passages until up ahead, he caught the glimpse of light as he stepped into an open cave.

Energon crystals lined the walls of the cavern, lighting the space with an eerie blue glow. Insecticons swarmed over the spiked formations, clicking and chirring.

He couldn’t help his openmouthed stare; he’d never in his life seen such a quantity of energon in one place. 

Near the base of one of the large, crystalline formations, a huge Insecticon toiled, carving at the energon with heavy, recurved forelegs. At its feet a smaller creature, barely a tenth of the size of the digger, scampered about gathering shards of energon and collecting them into a pile as they dropped from the edges of spiked limbs.

With a grunt and click, the digger wedged its limbs into a narrow crevice and heaved. The crystal cracked, lines webbing out across its surface and several large fragments dislodged, tumbling to the floor of the cavern. One chunk clipped the small, scavenging Insecticon, pinning its abdomen to the ground, and the creature shrieked in pain, a high frequency cry that grated on Orion’s audio sensors.

He was leaping forward before he even realized it, grappling with the fragment, easily half as large as he was, struggling to roll it away as the tiny Insecticon continued to wail in distress.

At last, one final heave and he shoved the chunk of energon aside, vents cycling madly and cables groaning in protest. He hadn’t been built for the function of heavy lifting.

 _Though you wouldn’t know it, with the way Alpha Trion would load me down with datapads._ He pushed aside the pang at the thought of his mentor and knelt by the creature, reaching for it. “Are you alright?”

The Insecticon hissed at him and he jerked his hand away as tiny mandibles snapped, “Easy there! I won’t hurt you, I just want to help.” He spread his hands out, tentatively reaching forward once more. “See? No nasty surprises.”

The creature’s small visor narrowed as it considered him. Slowly, it stretched towards him and he held quite still as it tapped its mandibles against the plating of his fingers, testing. From this angle he could see that one of the smooth elytra covering its back had sustained a few painful dents, the metal warped and wrinkled. “I’m no medic, but would you like me to take a look at those?”

A lengthy pause and finally metal clanked and ground as the creature erected the damaged elytron, the thin sheet of metal arcing up from its back like a curved blade. Mandibles latched around his hand, curved spines pressing briefly against his fingers before relaxing, a warning.

Cautious, he slid his fingers down the length of the structure, feeling out the shape of the dents. It would have been far easier to access them from the creature’s side, but it seemed more comfortable with his anatomy within reach of its jaws, so he did his best. Bracing his fingers against the upper curve, he pressed up with his thumb.

A clank and the fresh dent popped out. Shifting his hand, he repeated the motion until the surface was smooth but for a few scrapes which would require buffing to remove, before withdrawing his hand just as slowly, “Better?” 

The Insecticon cocked its head at him, plating clanking as it settled its elytron back into place. It paused, taking stock, before it chirred at him.

He smiled, “Do you have a designation?”

A pleased chirrup and a brief databurst in a simple, binary dialect: _Deathwatch_.

“Well, Deathwatch, do you happen to know if there are some energon stores that I could share in? I’m afraid my own supplies are running quite low.”

Deathwatch clicked something incomprehensible at him and scampered towards the far side of the room. Orion followed, giving between the massive, toiling Insecticons a wide berth.

The room where Deathwatch led him was long and low, its walls lined with openings, some dark and empty, others bright with pale blue energon. Deathwatch herded him towards one at the far end, where a large Insecticon crouched near a pile of raw energon crystals, head buried inside one of the openings. Deathwatch scrabbled at the creature’s legs, chirping.

Slowly the massive creature raised its head, revealing strange mouthparts protruding forth from the opened plating of its face, pointed and dripping with energon. At first Orion thought it was feeding, but then Deathwatch chirred, turning up his faceplates and opening his small, fanged mouth. The Insecticon rumbled and bent, pressing a strange tube into Deathwatch’s mouth. A few drops of energon leaked from the sides of the connection.

_He must be refining energon inside his own body and regurgitating it for storage. I’ve never heard of such a thing. I didn’t know it was even possible._

His function had never permitted him much contact with the intricacies of energon production, but he knew that refinement was a lengthy, difficult process. How could the Insecticons do it so easily?

Deathwatch withdrew, chirring with satisfaction and looked at him expectantly. Was he expected to imitate him? Take energon directly from another’s body?

Shivering and hoping he wasn’t causing offence by doing so, Orion unsubspaced one of his empty cubes and offered it to the creature. It stared at him for a long moment before leaning forward, flexible proboscis probing through the cube’s top. A brief ripple and then energon was flowing in, pouring out of the creature. In a few moments it was full and the Insecticon turned back to its labors, scooping up one of the rough crystals and shoving it between its fangs. The rock splintered with a shriek.

Deathwatch, evidently bored with watching, tapped at Orion’s foot and Orion allowed himself to be ushered out, eyes still fixed upon the large Insecticon. Stumbling as he struggled not to trip over Deathwatch, Orion braced himself against the wall of a small passage which sloped downwards, in the opposite direction from which they had come, and froze.

A faint sound, far too soft to reach his audio sensors through the air, vibrated across his fingers, carried through the wall. Yet it was like no sound he had heard since descending here, a melodic, comforting rhythm that resonated through his body, soothing his spark, calling to him.

 _Music?_

Pain flared in his knee and he shouted in surprise and pulled away. Deathwatch had sunk his mandibles into the cables of his leg and was clicking in distress as he tried to drag him backwards. Half-dazed, he looked around, only to find that he had somehow managed to wander several meters down the passageway.

Frowning, he conceded to the distressed Insecticon’s pulling, but as he headed back the way they had come he couldn’t help glancing back in the direction of the dark passage.

_What was that?_

\--

Bereft of the usual tasks of his function, he spent his cycles in idleness, sometimes observing the Insecticons as they went about their labors. At first he’d feared they might react with hostility, but it soon became clear that his presence was mostly beneath their notice. And so he lingered upon the fringes, exercising his archivist’s processor as he attempted to parse the complexities of their social structure and the obscure binary dialect that served as their primary means of communication. It bore some similarities to the language used to communicate with sparkless drones, though the Insecticons were clearly far more complex than mere drones, but even trawling the vast reservoirs of historical data within his own processor produced no references to such an archaic tongue. Perhaps the datatrax in the Hall contained such a record, but he was hardly in a position to verify. 

When he was not among the Insecticons he wandered, mapping the endless twisting tunnels, trying to familiarize himself with his new domain, Deathwatch at his heels. At first he carried a shard of energon with him for its faint light, but as the cycles below ground dragged on his optics began to recalibrate themselves, nanites making tiny adjustments to the permanent low light levels and soon he found himself able to tuck the shard away in subspace and walk the tunnels as Deathwatch did, a creature of the dark. 

It seemed to him that one sense dimmed, his others amplified and so it was that one cycle, as he followed an upward sloping tunnel, chasing the real or imagined scent of fresh air, he caught the distinctive rumbling growl of his host echoing down the long passageway.

He paused, straining to hear. Deathwatch stilled beside him, antennae twitching.

“—most are calling it a miracle, a sending from Prima,” a second voice said. The dialect was of Iacon, but spoken in a smooth, high accent that was distinctly Vosian, though it possessed a breathless quality that puzzled him. “But there are those among the Council ancient enough to remember the Insecticons. You might do well to be on your guard.”

“Those old enough to remember are old enough to fear.”

“That goes without saying, but nevertheless, your impending funeral aside, a little glitchmouse tells me that you have a guest.”

“And here I thought Soundwave wasn’t much for berth talk.”

The voice scoffed, “Don’t be ridiculous, _Master_. Your Insecticons are worse gossips than a pack of overcharged construction bots.”

“Perhaps they need reminding that my business is not a subject for idle chatter.”

“So touchy, this mysterious guest must be quite something.”

“Hardly. Only a slip of an Iaconian data clerk.”

A laugh, “Truly? Have you developed such specialized tastes in your dotage?”

“Jealousy does not become you, Starscream.”

“As if I could ever envy a pitiful—ah! Be careful, you oaf, I still have to fly with those!”

“You were saying?”

“I was saying that you should take your oil-drum fists out of my circuitry before you end up denting—oh! There, again!”

Megatron chuckled, “The clerk is nothing, Starscream. His presence is merely the result of an amusing…bargain.”

Starscream cried out again. _Not pain_ , Orion realized with a low, uncomfortable thrill. _Pleasure._

“Please, Master, I want—”

“No.” Megatron’s voice was hard. “You knew the rules when we began this, Starscream. If you desire satisfaction, then you will wait.”

Low, desperate panting, “Of course, my Lord, I only—ah!”

A short, sharp cry sounded, and then utter silence, but for the pounding of Orion’s spark and the hum of unfamiliar heat in his circuits.

“You’ve left scratches on my wings again, blast it.”

“I am sure Soundwave will be happy to buff them out.”

“Yes, well, he is something of a connoisseur of extended foreplay, unlike some I could name.”

Shaking and mortified for reasons he could not articulate, Orion began to withdraw. Backing stealthily down the passageway, he turned to leave, and barely bit back a cry.

Above him hung a monstrous, spindly shape, clinging to the low ceiling of the tunnel with thin digits and long, twin data cables which flexed restlessly, coiling over the rough metal, gripping and flexing. A blank mask stared down at him. At his side, Deathwatch flattened his body to the floor, elytra drawn tight as he cowered.

After several breathless moments, Orion dared to move, edging beneath the strange creature and back down the tunnel. The bot didn’t move, only watched him as he slunk away.

It was only once the mech had faded into the darkness, melting away as though it had never been, that Orion broke and ran. He didn’t stop until he reached his quarters. There, shaking, he curled into the relative security of his berth and drew Deathwatch against him, an indignity to which the little Insecticon submitted with grace. He lay sleepless until his chronometer, unfeeling mechanism that it was, beeped out its daily warning of his impending shift.

He began to wonder if he would go mad here, a misplaced shade from the surface, fruitlessly seeking a way back to life and light. He tried not to think of Jazz, of Alpha Trion, tried not to wonder at their fate.

He thought Megatron had forgotten him, but during one of his aimless walks, when Deathwatch had departed for his own explorations, a second set of footsteps fell in time with his own and he paused and saw Megatron, a shadow no longer, but rather limned in faint reflected light of his newly adjusted optics.

“Hello, scribe.”

He bowed in acknowledgement, “My lord.”

“I should have thought you starved or fallen down a mine shaft.”

“I had begun to wonder the same of you.”

“I have many duties to perform. Besides, I have heard that you pass your days among my soldiers.”

“The Insecticons have proved courteous; for all that they are beings of few words.” Orion hesitated, “However, with all due respect, my lord, I am accustomed to performing my own duties. Idleness does not sit well with me.”

“I see. And you think that I need a data clerk among my warriors?”

“I can perform whatever task you wish.”

“Ah, that’s right, you did say ‘any capacity’ that I might desire.” Megatron offered an unpleasant smile, “So tell me, scribe, do you possess any other talents beyond bookkeeping?”

Fear pulsed through Orion at Megatron’s knowing look. He bowed his head, his discomfort and shame at his own inexperience, his inadequacy, acute, and did not answer. 

“I thought not.” Megatron made a derisive sound and turned away, “I have no need of you, scribe.”

“Then why did you take me?” Orion asked bitterly.

“Because you offered,” replied Megatron, and then he was gone, leaving Orion alone in the darkness of the tunnels.


	2. Chapter 2

His recharge that cycle was restless and piecemeal, haunted by memory files of the invasion, of the music that had tempted him down the passageway, of the sounds of Starscream’s ecstasy under Megatron’s claws. At last, driven from his quarters by images of his city in flames and by a frustrated well of desire and rebellion boiling in him, he set off for the deep passages, determined to find the source of the music.

Despite the strength of his intent, it proved no easy task. The tunnels beneath the Hive were poorly dug and spiderwebbed without direction. The music pulled him along like a gleaming thread, now swelling until it nearly overwhelmed him, now fading until it seemed it might snap. And as he felt his way deeper, the passages forking again and again, he realized it was growing light.

He thought at first it was the glow of energon, pale blue and bright, but the walls of the tunnels remained bare. Finally he stepped into a small, open cave and had to shield his optics against the sudden blaze.

A crude cairn stood at the center of the room. Struggling to adjust his optics, he approached. Atop the cairn a glowing artifact perched, an open circle which seemed strangely familiar…

The discharge of a weapon deafened him and knocked him to the floor. Blinking up against the light of the artifact, he found himself staring into furious crimson optics.

“One directive, scribe,” Megatron snarled, stalking forward. “But one for which the violation will cost you your head!”

Megatron’s fusion cannon was whining as it recharged, and for a moment Orion was puzzled that Megatron had not simply blown out his spark with a single shot.

_The artifact, it must be. He didn’t want to harm it and I was in the way._

A sword deployed from Megatron’s arm.

 _Unfortunately, he doesn’t need a fusion cannon to scrap me._ Desperate, Orion rolled to his feet and dodged around the cairn as Megatron’s sword drew sparks against the floor where he had been. Blindly he fled into another passage.

The tunnel twisted, plunging downwards, and Orion scrabbled unsteadily in the metal dust and gravel. Behind him he could hear the ominous clang of Megatron’s pursuit. So focused was he on escape that he failed to notice the growing sound about him, the constant, steady shriek of grinding metal. The tunnel opened suddenly and he stumbled into a cavernous space.

Behemoth coils stretched and shifted, clanking as metal plates slid over one another. A mouth like a circular saw, all spinning blades, gouged at the wall with cacophonous noise.

Orion had once seen a drawing of a Dweller, in one of Alpha Trion’s oldest datatrax, a crude etching from a time when the first of their kind were still scratching out records on smooth metal: a blind leviathan, all mouth and stomach, the embodiment of hunger, the terror of the energon mines.

The creature paused in its feeding, coils looping and twisting over each other. Two curved saw blades extended forward from the sides of its head, and it turned a gaping maw towards Orion. 

_Of course blindness would be no hindrance to it._ Orion flung himself out of the way as bladed jaws cut into the wall where he had been, biting out a section of the tunnel from which he had come. Desperate, he sought another tunnel, but the walls were smooth save for troughs cut by the Dweller’s jaws. He pressed himself into one such furrow, rough shards of metal scraping against his fingers, spearing between the plates of his exostructure, drawing drops of energon, and watched the teeth descend.

Yet as the bladed mouth opened to devour him, light flashed and he heard the report of Megatron’s cannon. The Dweller recoiled, shrieking.

Megatron appeared frighteningly small next to the monster, but this did nothing to stop him. He scaled the thrashing coils like a turbofox up a cliff, slipping between the gaps with agility that belied his heavy armor, and making for the Dweller’s head. Leaping from the apex of one coil, he fired at the creature’s mouth.

One of the curved blades shattered and the Dweller shrieked again. Its tail thrashed and the tip caught Megatron, still airborne, catapulting him into the far wall. A coil rose as the monster writhed in pain, and crashed down atop him with crushing force.

Orion cried out, his voice lost in the Dweller’s wailing, and darted forward, hand groping for the only weapon he possessed.

The energon shard.

Had he stopped for a moment to consider his actions, Orion might have doubted the ability of such a crude blade to harm so large a creature. But the crystal, even wielded with what little force an Iaconian data clerk could muster, cleaved through the Dweller’s metal hide and lodged itself into sensitive circuitry.

Startled by the attack on its flank, the Dweller jerked, tearing the shard from Orion’s hands, shifting the weight of its body for a mere moment, and through the dust, Orion saw movement.

Megatron mounted the armored head, clambering towards the summit, beyond the reach of the spinning jaws, where beneath the shifting metal scales branched critical circuitry. Grasping the edge of a scale, he pressed his hand to the creature’s back, and deployed his sword.

The Dweller collapsed, its shrieking cut off abruptly, raising clouds of dust, and Orion stumbled and fell as he dodged to avoid a limp coil as it crashed down beside him.

Silence.

Through the settling dust, he could see Megatron descending from the monster’s back, his plating dented and streaked with soot. Below the curve of his thoracic armor, energon leaked in a steady stream, where the keeled edge of one of the Dweller’s scales must have driven in.

Orion found himself frozen, staring up from the floor as Megatron approached, optics locked on his own, sword still unsheathed.

Five steps.

Four steps.

Orion leapt in shock as one of Megatron’s legs buckled and he crashed to the floor. Spark pulsing, he waited, listening, but Megatron made no sound, completely offline.

Rising to his knees, he crawled over towards Megatron. When gentle prodding produced no response, Orion gathered his courage and, with great difficulty, rolled the other bot, turning him onto his back. Though Megatron’s optics remained offline and his energy field was dampened, energon still leaked from beneath his thoracic armor and Orion could feel the throb of his wheeling spark beneath his hand.

Logic and instinct told him to flee, but Orion hesitated, conscience pricking him at the idea of leaving another to die.

Reaching down, he ripped at the ragged edge of his cloak. Wadding up the fine metal mesh, he probed beneath the edge of Megatron’s armor.

The slick, alien warmth of energon on his fingers made him shiver, but he reached on, determined, until he found the source of the seep and pressed the mesh against it, packing it in tightly until the flow ceased.

So focused was he on his task that he only then realized that Megatron’s optics were online and he was being watched.

Shaking, he withdrew his hand, the energon which stained his fingers glowing in the dark, and sat back on his knees. For several long moments, neither of them spoke.

“Well, scribe,” Megatron said at last, talons flexing. “This is a surprise. I would have thought you long gone.”

“It is not my way to abandon one in need,” Orion said. “Particularly not one who has saved my life.”

Megatron gave him an unreadable look, “Then I suppose it is fortunate for me that you have such a strong sense of honor.”

Orion did not know how to respond. “I have packed your energon line, but it needs patching. Do you have access to a medic?”

“Of a sort,” Megatron said. “He is on his way.”

\--

Several cycles later Orion heard the clank of plating and the skitter of claws and a large Insecticon emerged through the tunnel mouth, followed closely by several others. The Insecticon approached and crouched beside Megatron, looming over Orion as he bent to examine his master. The Insecticon made a low, derisive sound, and to Orion’s shock, spoke in a heavily accented, but perfectly clear Kaon dialect.

“Tell me, my lord, is it your pleasure to pursue Dwellers without backup solely to try me?”

“You forget yourself, Wingnet,” Megatron said, but his tone was more amused than angry. “And besides, I was not without backup.” He nodded to Orion, “My guest was generous enough to assist me.”

Wingnet regarded him, “While you are rather small for a hunter, I must offer you my gratitude for patching my foolish master together until I could arrive.”

Startled, Orion hurriedly inclined his head, “Of course.”

“Now,” said Wingnet. “Let us take a look at what new mischief you have done yourself which I must mend.”

Megatron scowled, but obediently opened the edges of his outer thoracic plates. Wingnet hummed to himself as he removed the wad of soaked mesh, “Flystrike, Borer, begin work on the Dweller’s corpse; Shrapnel will wish to make use of it. And get a few more squadrons down here. We need to glean what we can before the Scraplets find it.”

The two Insecticons scuttled away, and Wingnet made a sound as though his intakes were backing up, “Hold out your hand, little hunter.”

Orion extended his hand and the Insecticon spat a sticky glob of fluid into it. The material quivered and began to spread across his palm, seeping between the plating on his fingers. “Quickly,” Wingnet said. “Before it hardens.” He indicated Megatron’s wound.

“Shouldn’t you—?” Orion said, biting back a shiver of shock and disgust at the strangely organic liquid. 

Wingnet’s visor flashed with amusement, “Ah, but your claws are far more delicate than mine, little hunter.”

Trembling, Orion pressed the goo against the seeping line, molding the hardening substance around it to form a tight seal. He withdrew and Wingnet leaned forward to inspect his work.

“Satisfactory,” the Insecticon said. “Your self-repair should take care of it in a handful of cycles. Until then, I would recommend not straining it.” He clicked to the other Insecticons, who set aside their work dismantling the Dweller and hurried to Megatron’s side, hefting him into a standing position, “Your quarters, my lord?”

“No,” replied Megatron, eyeing Orion’s stained hands. “The baths.”

“Baths?” blurted Orion. He hadn’t been able to determine what the Insecticons used as washracks, and he felt suddenly aware of every atom of soot and metal dust on his plating.

Wingnet let out a buzzsaw laugh, “It seems you have been remiss in your hospitality, my lord.”

Megatron narrowed his optics, but did not comment. Instead he made a short, commanding gesture, brushing off the Insecticons at his sides and began with great deliberation to limp from the room.

Wingnet smiled, exposing rows of needle fangs, and patted Orion on the helm with an exaggerated delicacy which did not entirely disguise his massive strength. “Good luck, little hunter,” he said, before turning to join his companions, swarming over the corpse of the Dweller.

At a loss, Orion followed.

\--

The baths of which Megatron turned out to be a crude solvent spring, which welled up to form a deep pool in one of the larger caverns, dimly lit by energon crystals which sprouted from the walls. Megatron waded into the liquid without a word and began to splash solvent across his plating, rinsing away the filth from his encounter with the Dweller. 

Orion knelt and dipped his hand into the solvent, watching as the drying energon on his fingers began to loosen and disperse.

“Here,” Megatron held out a heavy wire brush, which he must have removed from subspace. “This should help remove any residual energon from your joints.”

Taken aback by the cordiality of the gesture, Orion could only stare. Gathering his wits, he reached out to accept the tool, “Thank you.”

Megatron grunted and turned back to his own ablutions.

Not bothering to remove his cloak, and not daring to look at his host, Orion waded in. Once the mesh of his cloak was thoroughly soaked, he tugged it off and dunked it several times, until the soot loosened, floating around him in a dark cloud. Flipping the clean mesh over his shoulder, he took the brush and began to scrub it across his plating.

The bristles were harsh and he had to take care not to scratch his paint as he worked to dislodge caked soot, some of which he realized must have been left from the fires of Kaon and Iacon. Pushing aside the flash of pain and worry in his spark, he turned the brush on his fingers, scrubbing at the energon which stained them with such force that his systems flashed warnings of damage at him.

He jerked in shock as a large hand laid itself over his own.

“Gently,” Megatron said. “It is important to remove all traces of the energon, but too harsh a touch with the brush will leave small gouges in the joints, which will catch and impede the movement of your hand.”

The statement sounded well-worn, a piece of advice passed down so many times its origin had been forgotten. Where had Megatron received it, what still more ancient soldier mech had watched him, perhaps scrubbing energon from his hands for the first time, and offered it?

Orion realized he was still staring, and dropped his gaze, “I see, thank you.”

Megatron did not reply, but neither did he release Orion’s hand. Instead he tugged on the brush until Orion relinquished it and began to work over his fingers with light, brisk movements. The sudden change in pressure against the abused sensors in his hand rendered them hypersensitive and Orion shivered, his energy field spiking with confused, pleasurable signals.

Megatron paused in his work briefly, but his field remained quiescent, and he soon continued, rinsing the last of his energon from Orion’s hands before tucking the brush away, “It is not easy to keep clean down here, but you may make use of this place whenever you wish.”

“Thank you,” Orion managed. “Does your wound pain you?”

The spell broken, Megatron dropped his hands and stepped back, “No, it was well done.” Turning, he waded from the solvent pool, “You should return to your quarters, scribe.”

“Orion.”

Megatron paused and looked back at him, questioning.

“My name is Orion Pax.”

Megatron raised an optical ridge, “Why so it is. Rest well then, Orion.”

“Rest well, Megatron.”

Megatron smiled, showing off the jagged points of his fangs, and vanished into the darkness of the tunnels.

\--

Orion had not expected any change in his routine as a result of the strange encounter in the deep tunnels, but when he emerged from his quarters the next cycle he found Megatron waiting for him.

“Come,” Megatron beckoned. “As idleness has clearly driven your processor to madness, I have found a task for you.” 

He led Orion to a room lined with banks of consoles, a haphazard mish-mash of technology which ranged from modern machines which might be found in the Hall, to ancient computers which Orion hazarded were left over from the days of the Quintessons. Over one at the far wall, the strange creature he had encountered in the tunnels bent, data cables linked to input ports, spindle fingers typing rapidly.

“Soundwave brings me much in the way of data files, but their categorization takes a great deal of time, and none of my other soldiers possesses even the rudimentary programming for such a task. You will work with him now. Soundwave,” the bot looked up at his designation, blank mask turning toward them. “I trust you will make our guest welcome.”

Soundwave nodded his assent and Megatron exited, leaving the two of them alone. Struggling to conceal his discomfort, Orion made a gesture of greeting, “My designation is Orion Pax.”

Soundwave did not respond, the silence stretching out between them.

Pressing gamely on, Orion continued, “I see you have a variety of servers here, what would you like me to do with them?”

He leapt in shock when Megatron’s disjointed voice echoed through the room, “Categorization of data files.”

Trying to slow his racing spark, he realized what the other bot had done, “Well, yes, that’s a given. But what about the older computers? I’m assuming you want the files moved to more accessible machines?”

“Extraction,” snapped an unfamiliar voice, though not, he suspected, Soundwave’s own. “Soundwave, performs such a task.” Soundwave’s data cables flexed. “Scribe, does not possess necessary hardware.”

Orion couldn’t help a small, satisfied smile, “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong.” Carefully, wouldn’t do to out himself as a freak, even here among corpse armies and monstrous Insecticons, he released two of his cables. They curled up over his shoulders, their pronged ends flexing slightly “Modern archival models are built with enhanced interface technology.”

Soundwave considered him for a few moments before he extended one slender finger, pointing in the direction of a filthy console which looked like it might have been built around the time Prima still walked the surface of Cybertron, old enough that it did not possess any sort of tactile interface, or indeed any interface save two ancient ports: input and output.

 _Challenge accepted._ Stepping over to the machine, Orion slipped his cables into the connectors, plugs transforming to fit ports once designed to contain the tentacle limbs of Cybertron’s greatest foes. The dust-coated screen blinked to life and began to scroll with code.

“Remarkable,” said Megatron’s voice.

“Thank you,” said Orion. 

A high, familiar voice with a Vosian accent laughed, “Don’t thank me yet.”

\--

Many cycles later, Orion stumbled from the room, systems flashing insistent demands for energon. Soundwave seemed determined to push the limits of his multi-thread processor capability and in his exhaustion, Orion nearly collided with Megatron, who was standing near the door, a vessel of energon in his hand.

“Here,” he pressed the fuel on Orion, who took it gratefully. “Soundwave is a challenging opponent, on or off the battlefield.

“He was a soldier?” Orion gasped, gulping down the energon.

“Is one still. We are all soldiers here.”

“I can’t imagine; he appears so delicate.”

“One need not be large to conquer an opponent, as I believe you witnessed firsthand.”

Orion conceded the point, “Regardless, he’s a phenomenal intelligence agent. Most of the old intelligence files we received were fragmentary, or of horrible quality, but his are crystal clear.” 

“You worked in the Iacon Hall of Records, I presume?”

Orion nodded, a sudden lonely pain jolting through his spark, “Under Alpha Trion.”

Megatron fell silent and Orion gripped the empty cup of energon, staring down into it. At last Megatron spoke again, “I would suggest you retire for now. Once Soundwave finds a new asset, he will use it to the fullest capacity.”

Orion nodded wearily, “Of course.”

“Rest well, Orion Pax.”

\--

And so began their new ritual. Each cycle, when he exited his workstation, Orion found Megatron waiting for him with a cup of energon. After consuming it, provided Orion was not too drained, they would walk together, sometimes in silence, other times conversing. Megatron was still standoffish concerning his own origins, but he seemed more than willing to listen to Orion speak of his life in Iacon. Orion tried to downplay it, but it was difficult to conceal his loneliness and longing. 

Then, one cycle, when he emerged, Orion found Megatron waiting with empty hands. “Come,” he said. “I have something to show you.”

Puzzled and not a little disappointed, Orion followed. Megatron led him to a large cavern, honeycombed with openings. The walls seethed with Insecticons.

 _The main hive,_ Orion thought with awe. In all his wanderings, Deathwatch had never brought him here. As they entered, an Insecticon descended to meet them, shaking out his joints as he transformed.

“Lord Megatron,” he said, in a low, buzzing voice. “We bid you welcome, welcome.”

“Shrapnel,” said Megatron. “I believe you have heard of the data clerk, Orion Pax.”

“Of course,” said Shrapnel. “Deathwatch’s little companion, companion.”

“It would please me if you allow him to stay for the celebration this cycle, to hear your soldiers’ tales.”

Shrapnel bobbed his head, “That is no effort, Lord Megatron, Megatron. Orion Pax is welcome to stay, stay.”

Megatron turned to Orion, “The Insecticons will provide energon. If you would like to stay, Shrapnel is one of their greatest storytellers.”

Orion could not think of what to say. Megatron was offering an unprecedented opportunity for a lowly data clerk: the chance to witness and archive the stories of a culture unknown to modern records. “I... I do not know how to thank you.”

“Thanks are not necessary. It is my hope that you enjoy yourself.” Megatron nodded to them and turned to leave.

“A thought occurs, occurs,” said Shrapnel. “The Tale of the Northern Campaign would be poorer for lack of its general, general.”

Megatron paused, “I fear you exaggerate my skills, Shrapnel.”

“Lord Megatron protests too much, too much,” Shrapnel cackled. “His verse recitation is more than adequate, adequate.”

“I would be very much interested in hearing the Tale in its entirety,” said Orion quietly.

Megatron did not reply, but moved back to sit amongst the grouped boulders at the center of the cavern. Orion followed, seating himself at his side.

Shrapnel laughed and shouted something unintelligible to his soldiers in a harsh, grating dialect. The Insecticons roared and shrieked in reply and began to swarm.

Several soldiers brought forth large ewers, crudely constructed of beaten metal and brimming with pale energon. Springing atop one vessel, Shrapnel dipped three cups into it, jumped down to Megatron’s feet and offered one to his master. 

Megatron took the cup and Shrapnel held out the next to Orion, who found he needed two hands to accept it. Clutching his own cup, Shrapnel clambered to a high perch and thrust the vessel upwards.

“Insecticons,” he crowed, “we have a guest among us, among us. For Hive and Protector, let us show Orion Pax our hospitality, hospitality!” Tipping back his head, Shrapnel drank a deep draft of his energon.

 _“For Hive and Protector!”_ howled the Insecticons in answer.

 _Protector?_ thought Orion. He assumed they were referring to Megatron, but he’d heard Shrapnel call him general. Surely that was his title?

Sneaking a look over at Megatron, Orion found him drinking from his own cup, the brilliant white of the energon lighting him from below, throwing the shapes of his face into deep shadows.

Belatedly, Orion raised his own vessel to his mouth and drank.

The high grade energon burned in his intakes, a strange, dizzy concoction at once as heavy and dense as dark matter and as light and insubstantial as a spark corona. Orion braced his cup in his lap and tried to stabilize his spinning processor enough for rudimentary archival as he listened to the Insecticons harmonize, crafting their story in an ever-lengthening narrative that was not quite a poem, not quite a song.

At first he’d not been able to parse the rhythmic recitation, with its harsh pronunciation and rigid, stereotyped vocabulary and only recorded, but as the cycle stretched on and his processor grew fuzzed with high grade he began to grasp the direction of the unfolding tale, a disjointed string of battles, with specific Insecticons chiming in to recount instances of personal valor and to name the fallen, Shrapnel leading them all the while.

He’d nearly forgotten Megatron’s presence when a low rumble rose beside him, entwining with the buzz of Shrapnel’s voice. And though Megatron did not speak in sacred glyphs, the cadence of his voice, the all-encompassing thunder of it, still sent a thrill of pleasure though Orion.

Time grew fluid, seeming to expand and contract as drink and laughter began to break down the structure of the ballad and even Shrapnel gave up and went to indulge in more energon. At the edges of the Hive, groups of Insecticons began to splinter off, some sinking down into a stupor, others tumbling together in interface. Packed as they all were, with energy fields overlapping, the faint buzz of their arousal echoed across the room to Orion. He felt acutely aware of Megatron’s warmth and mass at his side, his spark aching and circuits buzzing with an overwhelming desire he could not articulate.

A large hand engulfed his and Megatron took his cup, which he only now realized was empty, and set it aside. “Come,” he said, pitching his voice below the chatter of the Insecticons. “You should return to your quarters.”

He found himself grasping Megatron’s hand before he could withdraw it, “Please—”

Megatron hesitated, and it was in that moment, sensitized by the fields of the Insecticons, that he felt it, the slow, steady swell of a desire that matched his own.

Wordlessly, he pressed his face against Megatron’s knuckles.

Megatron shuddered and drew Orion against him.

\--

Pressed against the floor of an Insecticon hive, the shrieks of its occupants loud in his audio sensors, Orion reached up, seeking hidden sensors through gaps in Megatron’s armor, his energy field blanketing the two of them.

Megatron, who seemed to have kept better control of his field, pushed and molded it against Orion’s, activating sensors with ephemeral electric caresses that left Orion writhing.

Megatron chuckled as a static spark leapt from his armor to Orion’s fingers and Orion gasped in shocked pleasure. Stroking against Orion’s chest, his voice thick with promise, he said, “Open for me.” 

Struggling with his recalcitrant processor, Orion sought the unfamiliar activation codes for his interface equipment, resisting the urge to curse. At last he found the trigger, puffed with relief as his plating folded aside and looked up at Megatron expectantly. 

But Megatron did not open his own plating. He was staring down at Orion, an unreadable expression on his face.

A slow spike of dread welled in Orion as he belatedly realized his mistake.

\--

When Orion Pax, newly forged data archivist, had come to the Iaconian Hall of Records, he had been sent to Alpha Trion.

Trion was an ancient mech, surly, and did not take kindly to the apprentices who were repeatedly cast his way, feeling them an affront to his archival skills.

 _“Very well, let’s get this over with,”_ he’d snapped at Orion, gesturing to a nearby console, its banks of interface ports gleaming.

Obedient, Orion had stepped up and released his data cables, linking into the console to demonstrate his execution of his programming. 

All six of his data cables.

He’d finished the little task assigned him and looked up to find Alpha Trion staring at him, optics narrowed, _“Is something wrong, Alpha Trion sir?”_

The old mech had shaken his head, _“No, Orion Pax, nothing is wrong.”_

And so Orion had continued in blissful ignorance, never questioning why Trion assigned him to the back rooms and the deep vaults, to the most ancient of the Hall’s records, bending his multi-thread processor and many connectors to the endless task of processing and archiving data.

Then came Jazz.

A sleek little spy model, Jazz had come officially to research census records. Unofficially he had been there to dig up information on an asset. And he had taken to Orion right away.

Orion had never had a friend before, never been flirted with or courted. So when Jazz had pushed him up against the stacks and dug his fingers between Orion’s plating until he was gasping with desire, he had melted in his arms, and unthinkingly opened up and embraced Jazz with his cables, all of them.

Jazz…hadn’t reacted well. And that was when Orion learned.

Every one of their kind had a single plug and port interface below their spark chamber, for communication with parkles machines and connection with other bots. Communication or archival models were built with two extra cables, medics with four.

Six cables just made him an assembly line glitch.

He and Jazz had eventually found their equilibrium. They had still been going out for the occasional cube after work at the time of the invasion. But Jazz had never asked or offered again.

\--

Shaking with mortification, Orion struggled to turn, to withdraw his cables, “I’m very sorry, I didn’t mean—”

Megatron’s talons, curling around the tip of one cable, cut him off. Bringing it before his optics, Megatron considered it for a long moment as Orion trembled beneath him, half-afraid he might lose it.

And then Megatron gripped the cable and brought it to the side of his chassis. Small pieces of plating unfolded and Megatron pressed it into the exposed port.

Orion cried out. He couldn’t help it; the sudden shock of connection was too much. Above him Megatron grasped each of his cables in turn, bringing them to his chassis and linking them, each one a new spark of pleasure as datastreams of code began to flood into Orion.

“Megatron,” he managed to gasp.

Clawed fingers stroked the delicate inner plating shielding his plug and port array, “Open.” But this time the command was accompanied with a stream of coded instructions, coaxing, guiding, and Orion felt his body unlock in a way it had never done before, his central cable rising up, seeking eagerly, blindly along the solid wall of Megatron’s chest, port spiraling open, tiny mechanisms rearranging themselves to prepare it for entry.

Orion gripped Megatron’s forearm guards, trying to slow his cooling fans, and watched as slabs of thoracic armor that had withstood the blows of the Dweller folded aside and Megatron’s central cable unspooled, the mechanisms of the plug cap unfolding, a complex flowering of prongs and delicate spines. Trembling, Orion reached up and touched, the barest brush, half in curiosity and half in longing. The prongs flexed beneath his fingers and Megatron shuddered.

“Easy...” Megatron said, voice rough. And then his cable pressed to Orion’s chest, socketing into place and Orion couldn’t hold back another cry. It hurt, a bright hot pain as heavy prongs scraped against untouched metal and protoform, spines gouging out faint signatures as they locked the plug cap into place. Clumsy, he only just managed to guide his own cable to its proper place before the floodtide of data swept him away.

\--

Orion had spent much of the brief duration of his function linked into the Grid. It was the largest communication network and informational repository to ever exist on Cybertron, and navigating the Grid required immense skill and the processor ability to follow multiple threads through a constantly shifting labyrinth of nearly-sentient code. In his more whimsical moments, sliding through the warm realm of virtual space as he scrolled past files and programs, Orion had wondered if this was what interface was like. 

He had been wrong.

A Grid connection was nothing like this.

Megatron’s consciousness plunged into his, invasive where the Grid was passive, observable. The crackle of his spark energy zipped along Orion’s cables, leaving fireworks of pleasure in its wake. The contrast between the intangible electrical pulses, hot brands against his sensor net, and the solid scrape of metal at his back, gouging lines in his paint, was heady, drugging. He clawed at Megatron’s chassis, struggling to ground himself.

Amusement pulsed through their connection. _Do not fight it, Orion. You know this._

Not strictly true; where the Grid had bent easily to his will, Megatron’s systems shifted beneath his with the slippery and inexorable force of a wave, but Orion managed to pull his scattered processor together enough to imitate Megatron and send a pulse of his own energy through his cables. Megatron snarled and he felt a surge of triumph.

_Too much for you, my lord?_

Megatron’s optics lit and he smiled down at Orion, the expression dark and laced with no small amount of irony. _I think I shall survive._

Something in his tone troubled Orion, but then a surge of current rocked through him, strong enough to strain his resistors and his processor blanked, his helm snapping back against the ground with a ringing clang. Above him, Megatron rumbled with satisfaction.

 _That’s it, my little scribe._ he said, and the glyph was the one Orion had used to introduce himself, but layered with all the nuances of meaning Orion had not known, the sterile symbol rendered multidimensional with possessive, affectionate tags. 

Orion’s capacitors tripped in overload, fuzzing his vision and sending squeals of electrical feedback through his audio sensors. His joints seized and static leapt between them as he felt Megatron overload, straining to brace himself to keep from crushing Orion. 

In the last moments before his processor reset, all he could see was the red glow of Megatron’s optics.

\--

_Sparks flew as his blade clashed with his opponent’s. Clawed fingers gripped the hilt of his sword, seeking to tear it from him and he leapt away, lashing out and driving the other mech back several steps._

_“Don’t get overconfident, I nearly had you.”_

_He smiled as he moved into the next strike, “Nearly being the operative word.”_

_His opponent laughed, crimson optics twinkling, “On your guard then.” And then they were dancing across the open expanse, the other mech driving in hard, rapid, repeated blows which forced him in a tight circle. He made a swipe for his opponent’s legs and the mech leaped, higher than he’d expected, his shadow blocking the brilliant light above._

_Briefly blinded, he tried to get the tip of his sword up, but the other mech had already dropped behind him, heavy arm crossing his throat and yanking him in close before he could get in a strike. The tip of a blade pressed against the side of his chassis, in direct line with his spark chamber._

_“Got you.”_

_“Impressive.”_

_“Always be aware of your surroundings. You should have been able to tell that I was maneuvering you.”_

_“And if I wanted to be…” he tilted his head back against his opponent’s chassis. “Maneuvered? What then?”_

_The other mech sighed and the blade withdrew, “I had hoped you would be able to take this seriously.”_

_Freeing one hand from the hilt of his blade, he patted his opponent’s forearm guard, “I will always take you seriously, brother-lover.” He adorned the glyph with affectionate, longing markers and behind him he felt Megatronus shudder. Beneath his plating his cables stirred, coiling with restless desire, “Will you?”_

_Megatronus pressed his helm tight to the back of his head and vented, deep and shaky, “On your knees.”_

_He smiled and obeyed._

\--

Orion woke suddenly, into a void of sound and light. Around him he could feel the slight buzz of the fields of the slumbering Insecticons. Megatron lay silent in recharge, a mountain of plating just visible in the dark.

Not daring to move, he traced the edges of Megatron’s chassis with his optics, gaze lingering on the sweeping, solid shapes that formed his wings, so peculiar for a mech who lived underground, on the faint outlines of the protective plating covering his ports, subtle reliefs against the smooth surface of his armor. He’d taken three of Orion’s cables on this side, but as Orion continued to look he could see three other ports that had remained unused. Presuming he was symmetrical, he must have another six on the far side of his chassis.

But why? He’d never met or even heard of a mech with more than a single port. What possible use could he have for so many?

Not that Orion was complaining. He pressed his hand slightly to the plating of his chest, felt the ache of strained systems and the phantom sense of that sharp presence in his port.

“The second time is easier.”

He turned his head towards Megatron, “Is it?”

Megatron did not look at him, staring up in the direction of the distant cavern roof, “The prongs leave trace track marks. Pain is rare in subsequent encounters with the same partner, provided a degree of care is exercised.” 

His tone was even, perhaps a touch nostalgic, but it sent a chill through Orion. His gaze flickered inexorably to Megatron’s ports, “I…will keep that in mind.”

Megatron glanced sharply at him, searching his face. After a moment he made a derisive sound and relaxed back, “There’s no need for all that, Orion. I doubt you could injure me if you tried.”

“I hope not,” he said softly, daring to curl in closer to the bulk of Megatron’s body.

“Foolish,” said Megatron, but he drew Orion against him, his energy field humming with contentment.

\--

Megatron never did allow him access to his additional ports after that strange night among the Insecticons, but neither did he permit Orion to stuff away his cables in interface, plying him each time with field and clever fingers and ruthless patience until Orion forgot his fear and embarrassment. He showed Orion how to burrow between the plates of his armor and seek out sensors hidden from his fingers, how to bind his limbs, an exercise which gave him a keen and humbling appreciation of Megatron’s true strength. One cycle, tucked away in Megatron’s quarters, which if possible were more Spartan than Orion’s own, Megatron even made a proposal which, to Orion’s eternal chagrin, had never once occurred to him.

“Have you ever used them for self-pleasure?”

Orion choked on his own ventilation, “What?”

Megatron raised an optical ridge, “It’s not an unreasonable assumption.”

“Well, no, I suppose not, I just, I never…”

Megatron’s optics lit, “Really now?” He rolled over and propped himself on one elbow, “No time like the present.”

“What, here? Right now?”

“Of course.” Orion’s energy field spiked with embarrassment and no small amount of arousal and Megatron smirked, “Ah, the idea appeals.”

Orion tried to slow his cooling fans and obligingly released his cables. They coiled across his chassis, waving with half-autonomous intent, and he hesitated, unsure of how to begin.

“Go on,” Megatron purred.

Trying not to think too hard on how foolish he must look, Orion allowed his cables to crawl down his body, probing between the plates of his exostructure. He was not armored as Megatron was and they slid in easily, seeking down to where protoform joined with metal.

Static charge built. He wanted to offline his optics, but found himself unable to look away from Megatron’s gaze. He squirmed in arousal, “Aren’t you going to—?”

“I think not.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You can.”

Orion panted as charge continued to build at an excruciating pace. “Help me. Talk to me.”

“What do you wish me to say?”

“Something, anything,” he shook with frustration. “Something in the Temple tongue.”

Megatron quirked an optical ridge at him. For a long moment he was silent and embarrassment spiked through Orion, but then he spoke.

 _“Rather that I be ashes than rust,”_ he rumbled, and the echoes of the sacred glyphs resonated against Orion’s chassis. _“Rather that my spark should burn out in brilliant blaze than be stifled by dry-rot. Rather that I should be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet. My function is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them.”_ Optics fixed on Orion, Megatron leaned in closer, until Orion could feel the heat from his vents, _“I am a warrior. Let the battle be joined.”_ (1)

Orion’s frame seized in overload and static sparks crackled across the surface of his exostructure. _“The Gladiator,”_ he gasped out, when he could finally form a word. “T-traditionally attributed to Prima... but there exists little evidence to support it.” 

“Very good.”

“I’m impressed,” Orion said, withdrawing his cables. “Hardly anyone studies the ancient poems anymore. The secular ones even less.”

Megatron was silent for a long time. “His designation was Steelhead,” he said at last. “I never learnt the crime that sent him to the gladiatorial pits, only that he was a scholar, once.” 

_“I will endure,”_ Orion whispered, the harsh Kaon dialect nearly searing his throat. _“To be burned, to be bound, to be beaten.”_ (2)

__“It is not the fate of scribes to die by the sword,” Megatron said at last, optics gleaming. “Only to chronicle the tales of the fallen. Rest well, Orion Pax, you will not have to endure much longer.”_ _

_\--_

_Halogen folded his hands in his lap, “Are you quite certain?”_

_He didn’t take his optics off the mech in the arena, wielding an integrated blade and shield against an opponent bearing a trident. The Matrix pulsed restlessly in his chest, “Positive.”_

_“He’s low caste.”_

_His mouth twisted in a smile, “It’s never held much respect for those sorts of things.”_

_Halogen shifted, clearly uncomfortable at the reference to the artifact, “I’m more concerned over his obedience. The last was a military model, not a gladiator.”_

_Below them the mech had managed to subdue his opponent. Energon fountained, splashing across the arena floor, “He will do.”_

_“He’ll need modifications, training.” Halogen’s tone was oblique._

_His cables twisted restlessly within his chassis, “He will get them.”_

_“I’ll have him brought.”_

_He made a sound of acknowledgement and Halogen departed. The mech had left and the arena was being prepared for the next bout. Offlining his optics, he tapped his fingers against his chassis and laughed, low and humorless, “Yes, Halogen, I am quite certain.”_

\-- 

_“What is your designation?”_

_Blue optics regarded him with suspicion. He had been upgraded with new weapons and systems to make him fighting-fit, a machine of war such as Cybertron had never seen. Banks of ports, edged in new, shining metal, gleamed in plating polished for the first time in what had to be vorns. He stood loose but alert, a warrior’s stance, “D-16.” His tone was touch defiant. D-16 meant a miner from Tarn._

_He waved a hand, “It means nothing any longer. Were you told why you were brought here?”_

_“I presumed I was under arrest.”_

_“Hardly. You have heard of the recent deactivation of the Lord High Protector?”_

_The mech shifted, “I have, but I fail to see what this has to do with me.”_

_“We require a replacement.”_

_“We?”_

_“You have been chosen.”_

_“By whom?”_

_He did not answer, but circled, taking in unpainted armor, a stark contrast to the vivid colors of his previous companion, “Do they pain you?” He knew the answer even as he asked; the settings for the ports had to be gouged into protoform, linked to primary conduits and systems, the armor reset above them._

_The mech stiffened, “No.”_

_“Deception will not do you any favors here,” he said. “Nor will rebellion.”_

_“I kneel to no one.”_

_He laughed, “So have they all said, D-16.” He cocked his head, “But that is not strictly true, is it? You have spent your life in chains, in the mines, in the arena…” He placed his hands just below the curling spikes of the mech’s shoulder guards and loosed his cables, “What are a few lifetimes more?”_

_The mech’s hands had come up to grasp his forearms, claws gouging. Energon welled and began to drip between them._

_“From this time forward, you are Megatronus.”_

_\--_

The next time Orion stepped from Soundwave’s workroom, Megatron was not waiting for him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The poem is modified from a snippet of text attributed to Jack London, titled “Credo” , which struck me as very Megatron-esque, and from a section of Dinobot’s lines from the episode _Code of Hero_. Full text of “Credo” is as follows:
> 
> “I would rather be ashes than dust!   
> I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot.   
> I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.   
> The function of man is to live, not to exist.   
> I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them.   
> I shall use my time.” – Jack London
> 
> (2) An English translation of the Gladiator’s oath [ _uri, vinciri, verberari, ferroque necari_ ].


	3. Chapter 3

The Insecticons were agitated.

Orion had arrived at Soundwave’s room that cycle to find it barricaded, the door silent and unresponsive to his queries. 

His patience worn thin with restless nights and strange dreams, Orion finally gave up and wandered down to the central Hive. Tucking himself in amongst a few boulders, he offlined his optics and listened to the ebb and flow of the swarm, expanding his field to catch the turmoil of emotions.

A curious chirp centralized his attention once more. Deathwatch had crawled up to his perch and was attempting to squirm in beside him. Grasping the small Insecticon, Orion deposited him on his chassis. Deathwatch chirred with satisfaction, burrowed against Orion’s neck and began to groom him with nervous energy.

Orion winced as Deathwatch’s mandibles scraped against the edges of his exostructure, raising the occasional spark and drop of energon, but did not protest. 

It was there that Megatron found them.

“Come,” he said. Deathwatch flattened his body against Orion’s, and made a nearly subvocal sound of distress.

Puzzled, Orion struggled to free himself from the Insecticon’s grip, “Soundwave—”

“We are not going to Soundwave.”

“Then where?” Orion set Deathwatch aside and rose. Megatron held out a ragged length of mesh, soiled with ash and grit.

His cloak.

“I don’t understand. Why do I need this?”

“Because, Orion Pax,” said Megatron. “You are going home.”

“Home? You mean Iacon? But I thought—”

“‘In any capacity I desire’, was that not what you said?”

“Yes, but the archives—”

“I have no more need of you, scribe,” and the glyph was as barren as Orion’s own fumbling attempts at the word had been.

Orion stopped dead, his spark contracting in pain.

Megatron held out the cloak once more and Orion took and donned it.

“Was it me?” he said quietly, as he pulled up the hood. “Was I…not good enough?”

“To the contrary,” Megatron said. “You were quite professional.”

\--

A slender jet model, silver, wings marked in bold red, was waiting for them in the upper tunnels. The jet straightened as they approached, crimson optics brightening, “So this is the little slip of an Iaconian data clerk.”

“You can perform your assigned task with or without your vocalizer, Starscream,” Megatron said.

“Touchy,” Starscream laughed. “What’s your designation, clerk?”

“Orion Pax,” Orion said, keeping his gaze upon the floor.

“You are to see him returned to Alpha Trion,” said Megatron, as though Orion had not spoken. “If I find out that you abandoned him before he is in Trion’s custody, you can expect the removal of several body parts which I have on good authority you are attached to.”

Starscream snorted, “Of course, my lord.”

Megatron did not acknowledge Starscream’s response, but turned and vanished into the darkness of the tunnels.

“Glitched oaf,” Starscream said. “I don’t know why I put up with him. Soundwave’s a comparable frag and he at least doesn’t threaten me with dismemberment.” He sighed and cast a disdainful look at Orion, “Come on then, Orion Pax, let’s get you back to Iacon.”

\--

The streets of Iacon were blinding. Shuttering his optics, Orion stumbled along behind Starscream, hearing the sounds of mecha rebuilding all around him. The Towers of Iacon were rising once more.

“Keep close,” said Starscream, snatching at Orion’s shoulder as he almost pitched onto his face. “Last thing I need is you denting something and Megatron taking it out of my hide.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” said Orion, finding his feet. “I have it on good authority that my continued existence is of very little concern to him.”

Starscream shot him an incredulous look, “Oh, my mistake. And here I was wondering why he’d assigned a Wingleader of Vos to escort a pissant archivist to Iacon.”

Orion didn’t get a chance to respond, because he was struggling to remain upright as Starscream dragged him up a familiar flight of steps.

“Here, Trion, I believe you lost this.”

“Orion!” Thin clawed hands grasped at him and then he was blinking up into a familiar face made unfamiliar with worry. “Orion, are you alright?”

“Alpha Trion,” he said. “I’m sorry I missed my shift. All my shifts.”

Alpha Trion frowned, “That’s not important, Orion. I feared you had been killed.”

Orion shook his head, “I found them, Trion sir. I found him.”

Alpha Trion’s expression softened, “So I saw. You did well, Orion. You saved us all.”

Orion laughed, “But I wasn’t good enough; he sent me away.”

Trion’s optics slid aside, “We should get inside, Orion. Certain things should not be discussed within the audial range of others.”

Sick of spark, Orion allowed himself to be pulled into the depths of the Hall.

\--

Workstation, screen, input ports, tactile interface, it might as well have been Nebulan technology for how familiar it looked. He sat at his station for a long time, before finally loosing two of his cables. He had to reconfigure the plugs to fit the console.

In some ways it was a relief to reconnect with the Grid, to plunge into the unrelenting chatter and begin the endless task of spinning out the individual communication threads.

And yet, as time passed, his toil grew tedious, the once familiar rhythm of onshift and offshift cycles an eternal nightmare that he could neither lose himself in nor escape entirely. _This is your future, frozen time. Be glad you have your memories to warm you._

He kept to his duties and avoided Alpha Trion as well as he could.

One cycle a single, gleaming strand caught his attention, an incoming transmission to the Hall itself, from the Council Chambers. Encrypted, but Soundwave had insisted he install decryption programming during their time together. Puzzled and intrigued, he turned his ear to the message. 

_“—the others may be willing to accept your prevarications, Trion, but I am not. You know something. Or you are harboring someone who does.”_

_“I have nothing to say to you, Halogen.”_

_“Concealing the presence of a threat to Cybertron is considered treason.”_

_“So drag me before the Council as a traitor. You think that any of your sniveling compatriots will dare to charge me?”_

_“I may not know why Sentinel gave you so much leeway, but make no mistake: we will find him, Trion.”_

_“Then by all means, you are welcome to try. The Insecticons are probably eager to feed.”_

Orion’s fists clenched.

_“Ah, but there is no need for all that, is there? Not when there are other ways._

_“You would not dare.”_

_“One of the Council Guardians has shown promise as a candidate. Tell me, Trion, shall I find out if the beast can be harnessed once more? And if not harnessed, destroyed?”_

The connection cut off so abruptly that static squealed in Orion’s audio sensors. He leaned over his console, spark pulse rapid and uncontrolled. Shaking, he groped for his personal communication line and tried to connect with Starscream. A message flashed across the screen.

_Electrical interference detected, please try again later._

Probably static from a storm near Vos, but he didn’t have the luxury of waiting until he could patch through. He had no indication of when Halogen would be moving against Megatron. 

Triangulating a spot where he could enter the tunnels from beneath Iacon took a considerable bit of Orion’s processor strength, calling up a standard map of the city on his console before overlaying and stitching his far-from-complete tunnel map over it. After no small amount of guesswork, he calculated that he could gain access via an abandoned warehouse with an attached subterranean storage area.

His personal communicator beeped: Alpha Trion. Orion ignored it, downloading a copy of the map into his processor.

Putting up a message indicating he had stepped away from his workstation for a moment, Orion hurried out of the Hall.

\--

Wriggling down a grimy, nearly vertical shaft, Orion dropped into the open space of a tunnel. Staggering to his feet, he shifted to his small, wheeled alt mode and took off.

The route to Kaon was a labyrinth of twisting passages and dead ends that made a mockery of his painstakingly compiled map. More than once Orion found his way blocked by a cave-in and had to recalculate, forcing his processor to calm, pushing aside frustration and his spark’s urgent whispers to hurry, hurry, hurry.

But when Orion finally reached the central burrows of the hive, he realized he was far too late.

The flash and fire of weapons echoed through the tunnels, merging with the shrieks of the Insecticons into a cacophony. In the distance he could hear the thunderous report of Megatron’s cannon.

Ducking away from an Insecticon warrior grappling with a mech bearing the insignia of Sentinel Prime, Orion flattened himself against the wall. The Insecticon smashed the soldier into the ground and ripped into his chassis, energon spraying across the floor.

This made no sense. Why would Halogen send troops against Megatron if they stood little chance of conquering him? 

_The artifact._ something whispered and terror lurched within him. 

Pressing his hand to the wall, Orion tried to concentrate. And there, beneath the noise, he could just catch the vibrations of the melody that had drawn him before.

\--

The music grew to raucous strength as Orion made his way into the deep tunnels. No longer did it fade and fluctuate; it dragged at him, demanding.

At last he found the cavern and its cairn once more and something loosened in his spark. The artifact remained in place, the rim of the open circle pulsing with light. Shaking, he approached the cairn, reaching.

Pain exploded in his chassis and Orion staggered. Clutching at his plating, he wheeled.

Councilor Halogen stood in the entrance of the cavern, a blaster extended.

“While I appreciate the guidance, Orion Pax, that is not yours to touch.”

Another shot dropped Orion where he stood. Blind with agony, he rolled onto his front, hand slipping in the energon that leaked from him. Through the shriek and flash of internal damage warnings, he saw Halogen approach, the violet circle of his single optic fixed on the artifact.

Without a thought, Orion lashed out with his cables. He’d never used them for such a thing, but sense-memory guided him, latching around Halogen’s limbs and driving in deep, spines flaring out to lock them in place.

Halogen bellowed in pain as prongs gouged at internal sensors and Orion pulled. Halogen staggered and his weapon discharged.

Part of the cairn shattered and the artifact tumbled from its resting place, rolling across the floor. Desperate, Orion reached and managed to bring it to him. 

“Give it to me!”

“I will not!”

“Little fool!” snapped Halogen, ripping at his cables, sending excruciating waves through Orion’s sensor net. “You will doom us all!”

“It is not yours to have!” Energon was leaking onto the artifact as Orion pressed it to his chest, holding Halogen at bay. “It belongs to Megatron.”

Halogen laughed, incredulous, “Does the beast own the chain that binds it? You know not what you do.”

Orion’s vision was darkening as energon escaped him, smearing the artifact. His sparkbeat seemed unnaturally loud, “No sentient being should own another.”

“And what makes you think that is my purpose? A rabid creature is no longer of use for harnessing.”

“I will not let you kill him.”

“Then you protect a monster at the risk of millions of lives!” 

Dizzy, Orion clutched at the artifact and shook his head, wordless, as Halogen reached for it. Just as the councilor’s fingers brushed his, light blazed up.

Orion tried to cry out, but his vocalizer had frozen, locked. Visual input vanished and the agony in his sensor net flared to inferno levels. He was stretched, smelted, split, his cables rent and divided. Clawing at the floor, he tried once more to scream, only to choke as he involuntarily purged his tanks. 

At last it was over and he laid prone, fans running in futile attempt to cool his burning body.

_Rise, Optimus Prime._

Driven by the internal command, he staggered to his feet. He felt huge and ponderous, wires sparking with pain as his sensor net tried to adjust to his newly reconstructed form. His cables, now doubled in number and twice their original thickness, dragged in sluggish coils against the floor.

A mech laid at his feet, staring up at him in horror. 

Halogen.

He tried to engage his vocalizer when something enormous struck him with crushing force. Stumbling back, he blinked into furious crimson optics.

“Megatron!”

Megatron didn’t hesitate, sword extending as he went in for a killing stroke. Something deep engaged in his processor and Optimus deflected the blow, “Megatron, stop!” He barely shoved Megatron’s hand away from his body as his fusion cannon discharged, blasting a hole in the wall of the cavern, “Megatron, it’s me!”

Megatron froze, optics wide. “Orion?” he said, as though he couldn’t quite believe it.

Relieved, Optimus released his wrist, “Yes, Orion Pax. I came to—”

A fist in his face cut him off, ricocheting off his battlemask, which snapped shut in reflex. Reeling, he only just managed to get his arm up to block a downward strike from Megatron’s sword.

It was then that he realized his hand had reformed into a blade.

“I swore,” Megatron snarled, pressing in with such force that the servos in Optimus’s arm shrieked in protest. “With the fluids of my Prime on my hands, I swore. I will be commanded by _no one_.”

“Wait, Megatron, I don’t understand—” Optimus gripped at Megatron’s sword arm as he fought against that implacable strength. His cables leapt to life and coiled around Megatron’s limbs, knotting tight as he drew the other mech in close, trying to hinder his use of his weapons. “Can you just explain—” Megatron’s helm smashed into his face and his head snapped back. Static buzzed across his vision, but he kept his cables tight until at last Megatron ceased thrashing, though he could still feel the tension in his body.

“Please,” he said. “Tell me.”

Megatron stared balefully at him.

“A relic of the Golden Age of Cybertron has chosen you,” Halogen broke in. “The hilt of Prima’s holy sword: the Matrix of Leadership. You are Prime.” He jerked his head in Megatron’s direction, optic blazing with hatred. “He is your Lord Protector, for all that he does not deserve the title; leader of your armies and bound to you by the power of the Matrix.” Halogen’s tone turned urgent, “He must obey you now. You have only to command him to extinguish and he—”

“No.” Power flexed behind his command and Halogen jerked, cowering in involuntary response before Optimus mastered himself and the Councilor recovered. “Leave us,” he said in a tone which brooked no argument. Halogen hesitated, but scrabbled to his feet and obeyed. 

Optimus turned back to Megatron, who was watching him with the cold, calculating gaze of a predator evaluating a threat, and withdrew his battlemask, “There must be some mistake.”

“No mistake,” Megatron spat. “Tell me, _Prime_ , how does it feel to be a slave?”

“A slave?”

Megatron smiled unpleasantly, “Your spark is bound, as sure as mine. What would you call it?”

Optimus could think of no words to describe the humming of the Matrix in his chest, solicitous tones which soothed the residual ache of his reforging, but he would not call it a chain. _Oh, Megatron…_ Although he didn’t yet dare release him, he raised one hand and ran it gently along the side of Megatron’s face.

Fangs sank into his hand, driving between the joints into sensitive circuitry, but he didn’t flinch. “Please,” he said again. “Tell me?”

Megatron lifted his head, energon dripping from his mouth, “What do you wish to know? Of how Zeta took me from one life of slavery to another? Of how I was given a new name: _Megatronus_ , because my identity did not matter, only my strength? Or perhaps of how I ripped Zeta’s spark from his chest?”

“Tell me of the Matrix.”

Megatron scoffed. “What of it? Of its purpose? No doubt the Temple Priests have volumes to speak on that subject. They would talk of avatars and sacred oaths, but I’m afraid, Prime, that it’s far simpler than that.” He spat out a bit of Optimus’s energon, “Far more…organic.” 

Optimus frowned. “Explain,” he said, and again a touch of command stirred behind the word.

Megatron cocked his head, “Ah, testing our control, are we? I must warn you, Prime, I fought free of Zeta by will alone. Do you think you can curb me with only the threads of his broken reins?”

Optimus held his gaze, steady, and did not reply.

Megatron laughed, “Come now, Prime, use that archival processor. How else would a planet-sized creature protect itself from outside assault? Do the repair nanites swarming in your hand question their purpose as they devour infection and rebuild metal? I wonder if Primus ever considered the possibility that his little army of phagocytes might gain sentience.”

Grief welled in him, backed by phantom echoes from the Matrix, “Megatron, I cannot believe that is all we are. I didn’t even know what the Matrix was, I only feared what would happen if Halogen laid hands on it. And I never wished to hurt you. How could I? I’m just ‘a little slip of an Iaconian data clerk’? Wasn’t that what you said?”

Something shifted in Megatron’s face and for a moment he looked impossibly old and tired, “Orion, sometimes the best intentions in the world cannot keep you from harming someone. The Matrix, vile thing that it is, is older than you know; it operates by its own rules, and we are but pawns to it.”

Clinging onto the single vision of hope he’d seen, Optimus pressed his helm forward, allowing it to touch Megatron’s. “Megatron, I am not Zeta. We may be pawns, but we need not play the same game.” He stroked Megatron’s face once more with his damaged hand. “Please _brother-lover_ ,” he said, using glyphs and markers which he knew in the very core of him that Zeta had never spoken.

Megatron made a low, despairing sound, “So be it, Orion Pax.” Metal ground as his many ports spiraled open and his interface array unfolded, “On your head be it.” 

Optimus almost asked him what he meant, but his cables were already coiling and stretching, eager. Startled, he tried to recall them, but they did not respond, socketing into all thirteen places, independent of his will.

Pleasure surged in him, but it was a different pleasure this time, his systems drilling forward, invasive, plunging into Megatron’s own. He tried to withdraw, but the Matrix pulsed, pressing onward in a storm of code.

Recoding, he realized in horror. The Matrix blazed through their systems. But it disassembled Megatron’s, ripping out the remnants of Zeta, spinning into place a new set of bindings. Optimus tried to cry out in protest, but a vision rose up and enveloped him.

_He clawed at his chest, scrabbling against where the blade protruded from it. “Mega-Megatron—”he choked as energon flooded his intakes._

_Cold blue optics watched him, “Nothing to say, Zeta?”_

_Mustering his strength, he pulled the other mech closer, dragging his audio sensor next to his mouth, “Rust.”_

_“What was that?”_

_“Rust with your soldiers.”_

_He knew the moment Megatronus realized what he had done, heard the enraged bellow, but he was beyond caring._

Optimus gasped and clung to Megatron, shaking. The last command of a dead Prime, the final links of a chain binding a mech beneath the surface, a prisoner in the darkness.

“So now you know.”

Optimus shook his head, mute with grief.

Megatron laughed without humor, “And now, after I nearly ripped my core coding to pieces to escape one prison, after an aeon trapped in another, I wear a new set of chains.”

Optimus shook his head once more. “No.”

“No? Orion, that’s not how this works. We don’t get a choice.”

“No,” said Optimus, steel in his voice. “You may be bound, but that does not mean that the scales cannot be tipped.”

Megatron raised an optical ridge, skeptical. “How?”

Optimus frowned, processor racing. He halted as it came to him. Megatron would never agree…but it was all he could offer.

Megatron jerked in his grasp as Optimus’s chest plates unfolded before him, spark chamber spiraling open. “What are you doing?”

“Tipping the scales,” said Optimus. “Take it.”

“What is this?”

“A failsafe,” said Optimus, pressing close, until he could feel the heat of Megatron’s spark even through the thickness of his plating. “You may not be able to trust me, Megatron, but I trust you. Trust that you will end this, do what is needed, if it becomes necessary.” He brought Megatron’s sword arm to his chassis, stroking the barrel of the fusion cannon. “You will hold the key to your own chains, Megatron.”

Megatron scrutinized him, face unreadable for several long moments, before his plating folded back and his chamber irised open. 

Optimus pressed his helm to Megatron’s, and let himself be bound.

\--

The streets of Kaon were barren and filthy with grit, despite the recent reconstruction, the scouring away of the plague-ridden and the remnants of alien domination. Optimus climbed through a gaping hole bored by Insecticon jaws and turned to watch as Megatron paused at the threshold, looking up into a sky clouded with soot and ash.

“Eons pass, Primes fall, but the pits endure,” he said. “Perhaps it is something of a comfort that they are as they ever were.”

“Shrapnel and his forces will be heading for Iacon,” said Optimus. “Can you beat them there?”

“My flight engines are far from rusted,” said Megatron. “May I expect you?”

“As fast as the roads will take me.” Optimus reached down, offering his hand, “Take the skies once more, my Protector.”

Megatron grasped his hand and pulled himself from the depths. Optimus did not release him, but dropped his hand over their joined grip, patting the scarred knuckle joints, “All will be well.” 

Megatron regarded him, “I cannot be Megatronus for you.”

“Nor would I ask you to be. You are Megatron, and I never knew you as any other.”

“And you? What designation did Primus collar you with?”

Optimus raised their hands to his cheek, “The Council may call me Optimus, but for you, I will always be Orion.”

“Matrix or not, the Council will fight you.”

“It is of little matter.”

Megatron threw him a bemused look and Optimus smiled gently, “There is more than one way to stage a coup, brother. If the Council desires the legitimacy of a Prime, they would do well to listen.”

“And if they do not?”

“Then perhaps I shall feign powerlessness when they complain of their city being overrun by Insecticons.”

Megatron’s optics lit and he bared his fangs in a grin, “I see. Until later then, Orion.”

Optimus released his hand and Megatron leapt, transforming as he did so, components locking into place as they formed enormous, sweeping wings. The backwash of his engines broke over Optimus like a wave and he watched Megatron spiral upwards, punching a hole in the sooty clouds above Kaon, leaving a sparkling trail as he streaked towards Iacon.

Left in the deserted streets, Optimus offlined his optics, felt the eager shifting of his cables, the impatient pulse of the Matrix, channeling a primal restlessness, a million threads of rebellion ready to be woven into the cloth of a new society.

It was time for a revolution.


End file.
